Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 125243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Her disdain hits like a slap, and I use the sting of her nonexistent touch to push me over the line. With my eye contact uninterrupted, thick white beads of cum shoot from the slit in my cock, smearing the glass wall separating us.
My strokes slow to the rhythm of the vein thudding in Azra’s neck as I milk my cock of every drop of my release, my chest heaving.
As my cum slides down the glass, Azra wipes, then flushes the toilet. The water temperature spikes instantly, scalding me. When I jerk back with a hiss, she snickers while moving to the vanity to wash her hands, maintaining eye contact like I’m the one who barged in on her.
She dries her hands with my towel, the motion brisk and irritating, then leaves without a word, the lock clicking into place behind her.
As I stand frozen, my skin still burning from the sudden heat, my cock reacts as if it didn’t achieve release mere seconds ago. The room feels too quiet and too empty now, but the echo of her disgust lingering in the air like a challenge gives me my biggest hard-on to date.
“Ben fatto, Azra. Ben fatto, cazzo,” I murmur to myself.
Her complete lack of interest—and absolute refusal to react the way anyone else would after walking in on a man masturbating—sends an electric jolt through me. It’s exciting and fresh and jumps my pulse in a manner I don’t like but also secretly crave.
Chapter 10
Azra
My brain short-circuits as I slam the door shut so fast that the frame rattles. I brace my back against it, palms flat against the grain as my heart pounds like I’ve sprinted a mile. I’m mortified. Horrified. And worse—stunned by my reaction.
I didn’t know I could be that cruel.
That intrusive.
That curious.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Nope. No. Absolutely not. We’re deleting that from memory.”
When Matteo mutters something in Italian that I’m pretty sure isn’t a compliment before shutting off the water, I push off the door.
As I pace the room, I try to erase the image of him stroking his dick from my mind. It’s no easy task. My god... that man is a machine made for pleasure. The way his moans echoed over the steady flow of water, and how his large hand didn’t diminish the size of his cock in the slightest, stimulated my senses.
He planted his feet at shoulder width as he rocked his erection in and out of his hand, as if he uses every muscle in his body to satisfy his bed companions.
Over and over, he moved his hand from the base to the tip. For a split second, I wished it were my hand pumping him. Then I remembered I was supposed to be mad at him.
He snapped at me last night after I woke him from what looked like a nightmare, but apparently, my subconscious didn’t get the message. I dreamed about him anyway. It was a dirty, full-penetration dream that woke me with that urgent, bursting-to-pee feeling I’ve never experienced before.
Well… except in the SUV yesterday, and look how that turned out. He left me hanging, and I’m still not over it.
When the bathroom door opens, I strive to subdue my racing pulse. Matteo steps out, towel slung low around his waist, hair dripping the same way pre-cum leaked from his cock when he busted my watch.
I force myself to look anywhere but at him.
“Morning,” he says, as if nothing happened.
“Morning,” I parrot, pretending I’m made of stone.
Our eyes lock in the dresser mirror, and I shift my focus to my suitcase. I refuse to contemplate what I just walked in on. I refuse to think about him. Anything I felt in that split second was nothing but shock—and maybe annoyance that my brain chose that moment to malfunction.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t real. Nothing I feel toward Matteo is real. It’s a strategy. A performance. A role I must play to keep a promise I made years ago.
The audience I’m aiming for isn’t him.
Straightening my spine, I shift into the version of myself I trust—the calculating one.
“We need to talk about the schedule.”
Matteo lifts a dark brow. “Schedule?”
“Yes. Schedule.” I pull a fresh pair of panties out of my suitcase, confident the ones I’m wearing needed changing long before I entered the bathroom. My dream was that vivid. “Anto... my ex... is scheduled to attend three events this week.” Ignoring the smugness radiating from Matteo that wordlessly announces Antonio’s schedule may have changed since we last spoke, I continue. “That gives us three perfect opportunities for him to see us together.”
His jaw grinds with an irritation that his lack of reply doesn’t reveal.
I keep going.
“A charity dinner on Wednesday, a private function on Friday, and a gallery opening on Sunday.” I tick each one off on my fingers. “I want to be there, with you, in a way that’s impossible for him to ignore our connection.”